


green week

by redlight



Category: Original Work, Slavic Mythology & Folklore
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Horror, Nymphs & Dryads, Other, Psychological Horror, Rusalka (Water Spirit), Sea Monsters, Surreal, Vore, Water Spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-20 06:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: it's green week. you're finally strong enough to emerge from the waters.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	green week

it's green week.

water droplets skitter from your webbed feet and fingers. you've finally got the grip for the first time since last year to climb onto the bruised-induratized willow tree, by your wretched manmade swamp. you're a basin of toxins, you—the fish in your streams have long since rotted away and your algae glows strong in you, messy in patches and spots across your skin. you're freckled with rot, pale with unhealth. 

but it's green week, and you have the strength to rise from your waters completely. not even your bare feet need to be submerged—you can climb to the highest branch if you tried, but the bark is rough and bug-bitten beneath your rotting fingertips. you don't need the height, tonight.

most of your kind sings, but you don't find much use for song besides the hum that circumpolarizes the air all around your breaths. oxygen through air isn't as dense as the stuff that strikes your gillslits, but you manage, don't you? you're made to manage.

the men who come out to hunt are easily prized. you like being their heaven and hell—a pretty form shrouded in forest foam and algae bloom like their mothers warned them about. perhaps the hunters shifted into soldiers, over the years, peasants into fodder, but they are here and they are hypnotized for all they value survival over charm.

it is hard to compete though. you can jump off your tree branch, you can creep towards them, web-clawed fingers out for embrace. sweet marrow is able to make its home between your brittle bristle needle teeth, hot and bubbly.

you pick your favorite parts. lips sweet when you drag them into a kiss, the gasp and shiver of a hard chest heaving against yours. the smooth slip and slide of flesh when you pull their skin open and tug their ribs out through lungs and muscle, fascia and flesh. the crunch-sweet-salt taste when you sucks their clavicles clean, when you bite through their sternum. 

there's girls, too. pretty girls with their hair braided up for their work in the fields, fingers bloodied from picking raspberries in thorny thickets, basket weaving with fibers untempered. the girls are made of splinters, hair pulled back with shawls, they are curious and drift to the pond out of absence of entertainment, out of a desire for _more_.

you like opening them up in different ways. being pretty and feminine, you’re something they shy away from. but you pull them into a kiss of terrors, clawed fingers reaching between their thighs. they get slick and squirmy and wet, a mess of love through the sound of your voice and the hum in the sticky-summer air. you like tasting them, honeysuckle and raspberry juice, cries and whimpers and unknown feelings awash, and then you b r e a k

them

open.

their marrow is sweeter than slick. blood as pretty as berries. you can slot your leftover human molars nicely into the big slots of their pelvis bones. it's a treat, really, since the farm girls don't often visit your corner of the forest no more.

it's green week. you sigh, stretch your needle-tip hands to the sky. your limbs are too long, your steps too slumbered, but it's green week and you can wander further from your home than you ever could otherwise.

you're hungry. you'll never not be.


End file.
